


a breath at the end of everything

by zhelaniye



Series: there is only one war [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Mage Hawke - Freeform, Mage Rebellion (Dragon Age), The Breach (Dragon Age), Venatori invasion of Redcliffe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:21:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22649344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zhelaniye/pseuds/zhelaniye
Summary: They call her the Herald of Andraste, a gift of the Maker himself. And she's a mage.Anders and Hawke stand in a half demolished chapel in Ferelden, and are given a faint glimmer of hope.
Relationships: Anders/Male Hawke
Series: there is only one war [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1629265
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27





	a breath at the end of everything

They called her the Herald of Andraste, or so was the word.

A bard’s voice rose over the chatter of the half-demolished chapel were Anders was huddled inside, somewhere in the Southern Hintherlands. The section of the roof that had gotten blown away in another skirmish between apostates and templars filtered the light of the dwindling afternoon through, and with it, the swirling green light that had scarred the sky, tainting the words of the bard with something ominous that felt bigger than it had any right to be.

“She walked through the breach when the sky exploded, and the bride of the Maker guided her to us!”, he was saying, his eyes wide and glazed over with the unmistakable fervor of those who believe. “I have seen her, my friends. And you should too. She has the mark of the chosen. The hand Andraste held when she helped us get to us still glows.”

Hawke scoffed and, turning slightly, Anders could see his lips curving underneath his hood in something that was closer to a grimace than a smile. He remained motionless and mute, except for the hand that reached out and brushed briefly against the other man’s, feeling it twitch slightly, as if he wanted to hold his hand, before quickly retreating.

 _Don’t speak here_ , the touch said.

 _We shouldn’t be here_ , Hawke’s silence replied.

 _I know_ , Anders thought.

They should not be here, in the heart of Ferelden, exposed to the templars that had wanted him even before breaking away from the Chantry and had set a death sentence on him the second they had forsaken their holy institution. There was a sword swinging over him, he knew, and everything in Hawke’s posture indicated he was acutely aware of the fact too, from the way his muscles were tight with the effort of not closing his fists to the way he planted himself firmly on the ground as if to avoid grabbing his lover’s arm and dragging him back to safety – or at least, the semblance of it.

But Grand Enchantress Fiona had sent word for help, privately, mentioning an old enemy of Hawke’s, something bigger and worse than the templars, and the name that had flared up in both their minds when they read the letter had iced the blood in their veins, made Hawke crumble the letter in his hands repeatedly until Anders had to still him with his own shaking ones.

“She cannot be right”, Hawke had said, voice strained. “I killed him. He was dead on the ground, bleeding like a pig and covered in burns and stab wounds.”

“I know, love.”

“I killed him.”

“I know.”

And he _had_ killed him. It was been a nasty affair, one Anders had few memories of and most of them involved the unbearable ache of the taint in his blood calling him, pushing him, breaking him, and Justice pushing on the other direction, tearing him apart from the inside.

And, really, it would have been far too easy to brush it off as the hallucinations of an Enchanter that had fought far too hard for far too long, too easy to blame it on exhaustion and paranoia. But the sky had been torn open from the inside and anyway, she had taken great pains to separate herself and her mages from Anders’ actions throughout the entirety of the war, no matter how closely they might have worked sometimes, and she was willing to throw all that away for help.

And at the end of the day, Garrett Hawke could not stop himself from scrambling to his feet at the first call for help more than he could stop himself from shooting lightning out of his fingertips, same as Anders could not and would not stop himself from following him wherever his feet took him.

So that was why they were here, standing still upon the multitude of refugees where his hoods would not feel out of place and the sack of lyrium potions on Anders’ shoulders could be disguised as the last possessions grabbed by a desperate man in his attempt to flee as quick as possible – from the templars, from the demons, from the apostate, from everything in this cursed land that could not stop itself from bathing in blood.

Anders did not need to look at his lover after so many years to know his eyes were darting across the crowd, looking for the blue ribbon in the hair of an elf that meant their contact was there, and they could leave. He doubted it was a trap, not from Fiona and not now after everything, but nearly three years on the run from everyone and everything had set something inside them on a state of alert that he was not sure they would ever back down from.

The words of the bard filtered through Anders’ thoughts.

“Seek the protection of the Inquisition! Sing to the might of the Inquisition!”, he was saying.

A skeptical grumble rose from a spot in the crowd not far from where they stood, which Anders had expected. Too many men had tried to drag Fereldans in too many directions in the living memory of most men standing here now, weariness and barely concealed anger chasing the anger off their faces.

“She’s a mage!”, the word raised from the crowd, and the world skipped a beat for Anders – and, if the surprised gasp that escaped Hawke’s throat was anything to go by, he was feeling much of the same.

“She is the _Herald_ ”, the bard replied to the dissent, more steel and conviction in his voice than ever before.

And it was not the frown on people’s face that made Anders’ head swing, not really. He had grown being stared at like that, had accepted somewhere down the line that he would never get anything more than that from strangers – from friends too, sometimes.

Andraste had once led the first exalted march over Tevinter, spilling magical blood that had sank deep into the soil, taken root in the heart of Thedas and grown into a world that hated, that feared, that turned kids and soldiers and people into monsters in a desperate attempt to survive.

And now Andraste, bride of the Maker, the most holy, had chosen a mage.

This time, when Hawke’s hand flew to his, he laced their fingers together and held it tightly, feeling the other mage reciprocating the gesture, focusing on the point of contact to stop the rush of emotions in his chest from overwhelming him.

The rational voice in his head knew it was likely a power-grabbing move by the Chantry, fruitlessly trying to keep their already crumbling control over the situation even before the Divine and everyone who mattered had been turn into burning ashes right in front of the eyes of their enemies, no matter how vehemently the Inquisition denied any and all involvement with the Chantry. They had the right and left hands of the Divine on command, along with a templar, he knew as much. But there was a mage amongst them, and they claimed to serve her, and it changed nothing but it also changed everything and everyone.

His mind and his body ached far more than his years warranted, his healing had never been enough for anyone, least of all now, and he was tired, deadly tired. His feet ached from running his whole life, his soul ached from the losses and the betrayals and the blood of a former lover dripping from his blade into the polished marble floors of the gallows in Kirkwall, his lips ached with the need to be stretched into a smile at his lover’s wisecracking jokes and the levity and light that he carried around in his soul, but the tiredness and the destruction had been getting to him too, regardless of the unspeakable pains Anders had taken to shield him from the worst of it, and they seemed harder and harder to come each day.

And still they fought, and still they believed, and still they held each other at night and washed the blood off each other’s hands tenderly.

And now, Andraste had chosen a mage.

Anders laughed quietly between his teeth. He turned his head to look at Hawke who, as the last rays of sunlight of the day hit him, smiled widely and brightly and, for once, nothing put a stop to it.

**Author's Note:**

> Must a fic have a plot? Is it not enough to give characters you love dearly a new reason to keep going and believe in their fight?


End file.
